Free Summerchill by Quentin Bates Page A

his head the size of a hundred króna coin and, judging by the smell, he’s been here a few days.’
    ‘No ambulance needed. No problem. I’ll get a scene-of-crime team out right away.’
    ‘Thanks,’ Gunna said, pulling out her phone and dialling Helgi’s number as the first patrol car arrived and parked across the entrance to the bus station car park with its lights flashing.
    ‘ Hæ , chief,’ Helgi answered groggily after many rings.
    ‘Good morning, young man,’ Gunna greeted him breezily. ‘Sleep well?’
    ‘I was sleeping very well until you called.’
    ‘In that case, sorry to wake you up. Good news or bad?’
    ‘Good,’ Helgi grunted.
    ‘Your missing persons case is no longer a problem.’
    ‘Oh, that’s good. So he turned up?’
    ‘He did,’ Gunna said. ‘The bad news is that he’s not at all well and it’s now a murder inquiry.’
    Logi woke to Brynja’s rasping snore. He thought back to the night before, when she and two of the other women had fallen out of a taxi after the sun had risen in a clear blue sky. He had packed the other two giggling women back in the taxi and told the driver where to take them before more or less carrying Brynja up the stairs. He deposited her in bed, where she passed out, spread-eagled, hair awry and lipstick smeared, while he decamped to the sofa.
    In the kitchen he brewed coffee and then went out to the shop at the end of the street to buy fresh rolls and pastries, returning to find the coffee ready and the snores a note deeper than before. He read the weekend paper, made himself some breakfast and thought about Brynja. He knew she liked him a lot, and when she stayed off the sauce, he liked her well enough. But a woman in her thirties behaving like a teenager once she had a drink inside her was something he struggled to come to terms with. His parents had a problem with the bottle, and as a child he’d dreaded the sight of them getting ready for a dance, knowing that an argument and even a few slaps and thrown plates would be the inevitable outcome. Maybe trying to forge a relationship with Brynja was a lost cause? Perhaps he should cut his losses and run before it got too serious?
    He finished his coffee and closed the paper. Logi sat back and stared out of the window, his thoughts drifting back to the night when the big man had called and the Polish boys had bailed him out. Marek would be on his way home to Poland now, and he imagined Tadeusz would also be snoring somewhere, although maybe not as loud as Brynja.
    Helgi had never been a great one for shaving, and today Gunna saw him look even more unshaven than usual as he ducked under the tape and jogged across the car park. A small crowd had gathered on the other side of the tape, along with a couple of TV cameras, and she had already called Ívar Laxdal to let him know they had something serious to deal with this sunny Sunday morning.
    ‘It’s definitely him, is it?’ Helgi asked.
    ‘I reckon so,’ Gunna said. ‘You’d best take a look. You’re the one who’s been looking at his photo. But it’s his car, all right.’
    ‘What happened?’
    ‘The car was parked here late on Thursday night. I reckon it might have stood there for another week or three before anyone paid it any attention. But someone bumped it last night, the alarm started squawking and there was a call this morning. Your boy’s in the boot and there’s a big hole in his head.’
    Helgi went pale. ‘Hell. I hate this kind of stuff.’
    ‘Go on, but be quick.’
    He walked quickly over to the car, which two white-suited technicians were examining in fine detail, and peered into the boot from as far away as he could. Axel Rútur Karlsson’s dead eyes glared back at him from his swollen face.
    ‘That’s not a gunshot, is it?’ Helgi said, hurrying back.
    ‘I don’t imagine so. A gunshot that big would have taken the back of his head right off. Looks like someone’s jabbed him with the end of a broom handle.’
    ‘Pretty